


Longing for Peace

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Background Relationships, Bad Decisions, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Parties, Swearing, Wedding Planning, awkward boys, clueless neville longbottom, reluctant sex god Neville Longbottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: All Neville wanted was a quiet life in his greenhouse with his plants, and maybe someone nice to come home to of an evening. If he'd known being asked to be best man at Harry Potter's wedding would disrupt his plans so much, he may have thought twice before agreeing so readily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea that Neville has no idea how attractive he is. Reluctant sex god Neville is my favourite Neville.
> 
> I know it’s not usual for the friends of the grooms to organise so much of the wedding, but I wanted an excuse to keep throwing Nev and Blaise together, so I’ve decided that it’s traditional for the wedding party to help organise the wedding!
> 
> ** I've added a 'mildly dubious consent' tag just to be safe because of stuff that happens when both parties are drunk, but it's probably overkill.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Neville hastily looked down at the table, pretending to be entranced by the half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him. He could still hear the poorly muffled whispers and giggles though, and this alone made his face flush uncontrollably. Even now, over three years since the battle, he'd not yet gotten used to the hoards of female admirers he somehow attracted. It was ridiculous. How they'd not realised he was just boring old Neville Longbottom, apprentice herbology lecturer and long time plant-enthusiast, he'd never know. 

He'd like to be able to say that his reluctant status as some kind of sex symbol (he had even stolen the coveted ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ title from Harry last year, and was tipped to win again this year much to his dismay) was the most surprising thing that had happened since the defeat of Voldemort, but that accolade would probably have to go to Harry and Draco who had announced their engagement in the Prophet just last week, to everyone's shock.

Which brought him back to why he was waiting in the Banshee’s Nipple, a bar on Diagon Alley that had recently become popular with the hip and fashionable set amongst wizarding society; a set which Neville resolutely discounted himself from. Oh, how he wished he was back in his favourite greenhouse with nothing but the murmuring of the Cannibalistic Honey Suckler bush for company. But no, for some reason unbeknownst to anyone but the great Harry Potter, he'd been picked as the aforementioned wizard's best man so now he was forced to wait for the other best man, one Blaise Zabini, so they could discuss best man things. He had no idea why Harry hadn't chosen Ron. Well, no, that's a lie, he had some idea - Ron had never gotten on board with Harry and Draco’s relationship - but he hadn't wanted to press for details. He wasn't salty about being asked; it was an honour, truly. But had he known being best man would involve sitting in a trendy bar by himself while witches all around him dared each other to approach him, he might have reconsidered. Why couldn't Blaise have agreed to meet in the Leaky Cauldron or, better yet, in his small office at the back of Greenhouse 7?

“Longbottom! Sorry to keep you. Meeting overran. You know how it is.”

Neville smiled, relief coursing through him. At least with Blaise finally here, some of the female attention would be diverted. Blaise had a tendency to draw all the eyes in the room and he positively thrived off the attention. Neville stood up to greet Blaise with a handshake but the other man gripped his hand and yanked him in for a suffocating hug. Neville startled, his arms dangling uselessly at his side.

“How’ve you been? I can't believe my boy Draco finally tamed the saviour! Crazy, eh?” Blaise said as he drew back from the hug.

This wasn't the first time they'd seen each other since school; thanks to Harry and Draco, there'd been several nights out where the different friendship groups had crossed over, but this was the first time Neville had spent any time one-on-one with the self-confessed playboy of Slytherin. It was nerve-wracking to say the least. He'd always found Blaise to be quite intimidating; he was so brash, so confident. He entered a room like he owned the place and he never seemed to be without a gorgeous witch, or occasionally a wizard, dangling off his arm. If anyone should have won Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ award, it was him. 

Neville watched as Blaise summoned a staff member with a wave of one perfectly manicured hand.

“I, er, I'm not sure they do table service here,” Neville said quietly, leaning across the table towards Blaise.

“Nonsense! They can't expect people like us to fetch our own drinks.”

A youngish woman with a nametag that read Elinor Grimblehawk approached their table with a polite smile. “Good afternoon Mr Zabini, Mr Longbottom. What may we get for you?”

“I'll have a double espresso, and my good friend here will have another one of those, ah, Lattes, is it?” Blaise gestured to Neville’s mostly-finished latte and Neville nodded. He didn't particularly want another one, but he got swept up in the moment. “We’ll also have a fire whiskey each, top shelf mind. Thank you.” Blaise shot her a broad smile so dashingly radiant that even Neville’s knees felt a little weak. The waitress, or whatever she was, blushed and stifled a giggle.

“Right away, sir.” She turned to Neville and he froze as he suddenly became the centre of attention. “Can I just say, it's an honour to have you here, Mr Longbottom. Thank you for what you did in the war.” She inclined her head and bustled off to the counter before he could respond. Neville felt the ever familiar heat of a blush creeping up his neck and settling on his cheeks. He risked a glance at Blaise and was astonished to see a very un-Blaise like soft smile on his face. It was quickly replaced by his typical cocky smirk though, so thinking back on it, Neville wasn't even convinced he'd seen it.

“Let's get down to business then,” Blaise said, with a clap of his hands. He produced a large folder from a bag at his feet that Neville hadn't even noticed. “Now, firstly, we need to find out whether there will be two separate Stag parties, or will they want a combined one? One would be more simple, but I can't see Draco allowing Harry to participate in any of the traditional stag activities if he's there, so maybe two separate parties is preferable? And would the guest list be the same for both? There'll obviously be some crossover so parties would have to be on different nights. And then there's the entertainment! Now, I've gathered together a list of….”

Blaise continued to talk at Neville for the next hour, pausing every so often when he needed a yes or no, or when he needed badger the staff for more preferential treatment. Neville just listened and nodded when required; he had no clue what went into organising a stag party, or any party for that matter, but Blaise was clearly in his element so he let him get on with it.

\-------------------

The next time Neville saw Blaise, it was thankfully on more neutral ground. He took a tentative sip from his takeaway coffee cup (nope, still too hot) and looked around the grand hall he was currently standing in. Okay, so maybe ‘neutral ground’ was a bit strong— it wasn’t exactly a usual setting for him, but at least it wasn’t open to the public.

“Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful. What do you think, Neville?” Hermione gushed, her hands clasped to her chest. He watched her spin around, trying to take in everything at once, grateful that he wasn’t standing there like Nobby No-Mates again. Now they just needed Pansy and Blaise to show up.

“Yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” He replied. To be honest, he couldn’t really see Harry being comfortable with it, but what did he know. Maybe this was the sort of place people had engagement parties in. Blaise had found it, and he seemed to know a lot about parties.

“Hmm, I guess you’re right, it doesn’t really scream Harry,” Hermione said after a moment’s more reflection, as if reading Neville’s mind. “But, it’s certainly very ‘Draco’, so I’m sure Harry will love it for that.”

Pansy was the next to show up. She was firmly in the ‘pro’ camp for the venue, unsurprisingly, and enthused over the shape and size of the sconces for a solid ten minutes. Not for the first time, Neville found himself wondering why on earth these people insisted on involving him in this strange practice. He thought wistfully about the purple blooms on his Drooping Ninnies and started mentally planning his pruning schedule for the next week.

“Ladies! Glad you could make it. You’re both looking divine. And Neville,” Neville spun around in time to see Blaise striding towards him with intent, “you look positively dashing.” His voice dropped down a register to a seductive purr which, when combined with the arrogant smirk, did all sorts of funny things to Neville’s insides.

“Alright, Blaise.” He said weakly, as the man engulfed him in another suffocating hug. Blaise’s hugs were like nothing on this earth, Neville decided, mid-squeeze. Maybe it was because they were of an equal height and build. Neville didn’t often get hugged by other men— usually it was small, dainty women (being a tall, well-built, man, nearly every woman was dainty by comparison), like Luna, or Hermione, or Ginny who hugged him. Harry was also fairly small and dainty, comparatively (not that Neville would ever call him that to his face), and Ron was more of a back-patter than a bear-hugger. Most people Neville knew, however, stuck to handshakes or shoulder slaps. No one had ever hugged him like Blaise had. Now that it wasn’t so unexpected, he could enjoy it for what it was; strangely comforting, warm, and reassuring. Neville slowly raised his hitherto limp noodle arms and hugged Blaise back.

“Okay boys, break it up. There’ll be plenty of time for _that_ after we’ve sorted out the venue. We’ve still got another five to view today, remember.” Pansy shouted from the other side of the hall. Startled, Neville stumbled back from the embrace and hurried over to where Hermione and Pansy were firing questions at a terrified looking wizard, who either worked here or had taken a wrong turn and was now suffering the consequences. Neville shook his head to dislodge the strange feeling that had crept over him. What did Pansy mean? And why did he feel like his grandmother had walked in on him with his hand down his pants? He risked a glance back at Blaise and once again caught that strange, soft, smile on his face, before it was quickly replaced by a more Blaise-ish expression. Neville’s stomach did a little flip for absolutely no reason he could fathom.

\------------

The day of ‘the search for the perfect engagement party venue’ would go down in history (if Neville had any say in the matter) as the longest, and most pointless day of his life. They had spent hours apparating between venues, pouring over leaflets, terrorising stewards, and generally arguing about everything from the colour of the drapes to the size of the door handles and Neville was officially DONE with the whole fucking palaver. What grated the most was that Blaise, Pansy, and Hermione had decided, at long last, that the first venue was the best (dependent on Harry and Draco’s approval), so Neville couldn’t find it in himself to view the day as ‘well spent’. If this was how nightmarish it was to sort a venue for the engagement party, into how many more levels of hell would they have to descend to sort out a venue for the actual wedding? With any luck, Harry and Draco would be able to tear themselves away from each other for long enough to help out. Or Drooping Ninnies might fly (and you didn’t need to be a herbologist to know that would never happen).

\----------

Neville clung to the bar as it were a lifeline in a sea of drunk Hogwarts alumni, Ministry employees, and generally important people. He was happy for Harry and Draco, really he was, and he felt enormously honoured to be such an important part of the wedding party, but seriously, was an engagement party strictly necessary? The happy couple looked radiant with joy as they danced, their bodies in constant contact, like neither could survive without the touch of the other. It was both beautiful, and yet thoroughly vomit-inducing, how the former enemies completed each other.

Neville sighed and sought out something else to watch; he’d had enough of being reminded just how far removed he was from his own engagement party. He hadn’t had a proper girlfriend for almost two years, and had only had a handful of dates since then. It’s not that he didn’t get offers. As much as it sickened him to acknowledge it, he could probably have his pick of the witches that fawned over him whenever he stepped out in public, but he didn’t want someone who only liked him because of what they’d read in the Prophet or Witch Weekly. He wanted someone who saw past the fame, someone who didn’t care he was the ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’, maybe someone who shared his love of plants, and wouldn’t mind when he spent all his time in the garden or in a greenhouse. He didn’t think it was a big ask, but his empty bed and his string of failed relationships and first dates, seemed to suggest otherwise. He’d thought he was onto a winner with Hannah; he had even been able to imagine them growing old and grey together, but she had eventually grown tired of fighting for attention against his plants. She was here tonight, actually. He’d seen her waltzing past with her husband— an ox of a man who wouldn’t know the difference between an apple and an onion —and she looked really happy. She had never looked like that with him.

The barman topped up Neville’s glass without him asking. He must have sensed his dark mood. Getting drunk would be a BAD IDEA, but he was three, maybe four, drinks down so it was looking like the decision would soon be out of his hands. He scanned the room again from the safety of his barstool and found his eyes drawn to Blaise. The man was in his element, working the room like he’d been born to it; shaking hands, kissing faces, smiling broadly. Every person he spoke to was made to feel like the centre of his world and it was mesmerizing to watch him work his charms on everyone. Neville knew exactly what it felt like; Blaise was the same with him. He would look at Neville like no other person existed in the room, and it felt good. So good. 

Neville frowned as a pretty, young, witch pressed herself against Blaise’s body. She was clearly not shy about going after what she wanted; it was embarrassing to watch. Surely Blaise wouldn’t fall for such an obvious attempt at seduction? 

“She doesn’t stand a chance.” Pansy drawled, following Neville’s line of sight as she slipped onto the stool beside him. “Blaise has always preferred the chase. He likes a challenge.”

“Yeah? But he could have anyone he wanted, where’s the challenge in that?”

“Really? Anyone? Hmmm. He’s actually mid-chase at the moment. The current object of his affection is completely oblivious so it’s proving to be quite a monumental challenge. Call me an old romantic, but I think this person might be quite special to him, if only they’d realise.”

“Oh.” For some reason, this news weighed heavily on him. He felt like a light had gone off inside of him, like a tiny flicker of hope, of desire, had been extinguished before he’d even acknowledged its existence. “Do, ah, do you know who it is? The girl he likes?” Neville asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Of course I know them, sweetie. It’s not for me to say though. You’ll find out in good time. Blaise always gets what he wants, one way or another.” She smirked and patted him on the cheek with a hand made cold from the drink she’d held. She slid off the stool and weaved her way through the crowd, soon disappearing from sight.

Neville’s eyes locked on to Blaise again. The girl was nowhere to be seen, but she’d been replaced by three others and Neville fought to keep the frown off his face. He knocked back his drink and grimaced.

“Another?” The barman asked, gesturing with the bottle.

“Nah, you know what, I think I’m going to try get laid instead,” Neville replied. If Blaise didn’t want those girls, maybe he could pick up one of his rejects, just for the night. He was the right amount of drunk for casual sex with a stranger to sound like the perfect solution to his loneliness. Perhaps he could even talk Blaise into teaching him some of his tricks. Merlin knows he needed all the help he could get.

\------

Neville pushed open the door to the Banshee’s Nipple. Somehow, this ridiculously overpriced bar had become the meeting point for all official Harry and Draco wedding preparation meetings so Neville found himself frequenting the place far more regularly than he wanted. However, tonight was not supposed to be about wedding talk. Blaise had decided the wedding party needed to bond and apparently consuming poncey drinks in an overcrowded, trendy, nightspot was the way to go about it.

It was Friday night and the place was heaving. The bar was several people deep and all the tables, which were actually quite pleasant to sit at during the day, were hidden by the sheer mass of people gathered around them. Neville searched in vain for a familiar face, but it was near impossible to see anyone in the low lighting. He decided the best thing to do would be to get a drink, then maybe he could stake out a patch of real estate by the bar and keep a look out for Blaise or the girls. Before he could squeeze through the masses, however, he felt a familiar weight across his shoulders, and smelt that cedar-infused cologne favoured by Blaise. He turned his head, just in time to catch a big, wet kiss on the side of his mouth. 

“Nevvie! Nevvie Nevvie Nev Nev!” Blaise crowed in his ear. “You made it!”

“I didn’t think I had a choice.” He replied, leaning in towards Blaise so his voice could be heard over the music.

“There’s always a choice, my beautiful man. Always.” He grinned and patted Neville’s face with his free hand. 

Neville pulled back fractionally, both so he could see Blaise’s face properly and also to protect his eyeballs from being melted by the alcohol on Blaise’s breath. “So, ah, where are the girls? Are they here yet?” He asked, craning his neck slightly to scan the crowd.

“Um, yeah, about that. This isn’t really an ‘official’—” Blaise lifted his hands to do air quotes, miraculously managing to not spill any of his drink “—Harry and DrayDray meet-up. I just said that to get you here. Actually, this is more of an apology night out to make up for being a shitty wingman at the engagement party the other week and not getting you laid. So, yeah, no girls tonight, Nevviekins, just us guys. Thought we could bond, or, you know, whatever.” Blaise still had his arm hooked around Neville’s neck, and his face was so close, Neville could feel his lips tickling his ear as he spoke. His voice was a low rumble that sent shivers down Neville’s spine. He wished one of the tables would free up; he didn’t trust his legs one bit. He reached out to steady himself on a nearby pillar. It wasn’t that Blaise’s voice playing across his ear turned his knees to jelly, it was just that the other boy was half cut and was leaning his full weight against him. Yes, that was it.

Neville smiled weakly. “Sounds good.” He wasn’t about to disagree with Blaise when the other boy was draped over him so closely that their noses would rub together if Neville turned his head any further. He drew in a shaky breath as Blaise withdrew, causing a sudden pang of emptiness; a desperate yearning for contact appeared from nowhere, shocking Neville with its intensity. Before he could panic or whimper, Blaise curled a hand around his wrist and tugged him through a door he hadn’t spotted to the left of the bar.

The room in which Neville now found himself in was almost as busy as the one they’d left behind, but the music was quieter and the conversations between patrons appeared to be more subdued. Blaise led him to an empty booth and pulled Neville onto the bench beside him. A bottle of wine and two glasses were already on the table, and Blaise reached over and poured them each a drink. Neville was speechless. He had so many questions, but he was incapable of forming words so they just queued up in his head. How did Blaise find a table so easily? Where did that wine come from? Why was Blaise looking at him like that? 

Blaise spent the evening regaling Neville with stories about his day to day adventures, and asking question upon question, probing Neville about every aspect of his life; it was more than a little unnerving. As the night wore on, Neville found himself drinking just to give his hands something to do and to distract himself from staring at Blaise. For some reason, no matter how many sips he took, his glass never emptied— though whether this was down to Blaise surreptitiously refilling his glass, or an illegal _never-run-dry_ charm, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was slowly losing his grip on sobriety.

Was Blaise like this with everyone? It’s no wonder the man never had any trouble picking up girls; his voice rumbled at the exact frequency required to turn Neville’s insides into mush, and that cologne surely had some kind of amortentia-like potion mixed in considering the effect it was having on him right now. Before Neville knew what was happening, he found himself leaning in, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Blaise’s neck to get closer to the source of the delicious aroma. He was vaguely aware of Blaise tensing beside him, but then he seemed to relax and Neville felt a hand travel up his arm and come to rest on the back of his neck. A tiny part of him was screaming ABORT ABORT ABORT STOP THIS NONSENSE IMMEDIATELY before he did something ridiculous but drunk-Neville squashed it down until it became a tiny blip in his consciousness and wasn’t loud enough to hassle him anymore. 

Neville slowly became aware of Blaise’s fingers moving delicately across the skin on his neck, teasing the hairs at his nape. He released a shuddering breath and pushed his face further into Blaise’s neck. He felt Blaise tilt his head. Was he inviting Neville to get closer? What exactly was going on? Neville’s brain felt sluggish and unresponsive. He was vaguely aware that what they were doing, (whatever it actually was) was probably a BAD IDEA but the message got twisted up and lost before he could act upon it.

Blaise’s fingers left the back of his neck, lightly trailed along his jaw, touch as soft as silk, and gently pressed on Neville’s chin to tilt his head up. He followed the movement, unresisting. Blaise’s breath fanned across his face— when had they gotten this close? Neville could see every little detail of his face; the way his dark eyelashes perfectly framed his deep brown eyes, a little mole on his cheek only just visible on his dark skin, a small scar on his chin, those full, perfect lips, moistened by his perfect pink tongue— why was he staring at Blaise’s mouth? Was it getting closer?

Before Neville knew what was happening, he felt Blaise’s lips against his. Those perfect, perfect lips. Neville pushed back, increasing the pressure, and opened his mouth, inviting Blaise in. Suddenly he couldn’t think of anything but tasting Blaise, taking everything he was willing to give. This was insane. He was kissing Blaise fucking Zabini, playboy of Hogwarts. Him! Clumsy, shy, Neville Longbottom! What on earth was he thinking!?

Wait. He was kissing Blaise Zabini.

Neville’s brain suddenly caught up with events and he leapt back as if burnt. One hand flew to his mouth, the other gripped his hair. What. The. Fuck. He drew in a shaky breath and chanced a look at Blaise. The man looked as shocked as Neville felt, his hands held up in a placatory gesture. Neither of them moved for a few terrible, awkward moments. Neville slowly backed away and got up from the table. His legs felt like jelly— was that the booze or the mortification? Blaise watched him cautiously, and looked like he might try and speak, but Neville didn’t need to hear his accusations of impropriety to add to his shame.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I don’t know what happened. Please, please, forgive me. I have to go. Sorry.” Neville blurted, the words tumbling over themselves to get out. He turned away from Blaise and dashed out of the private room before the other man could say anything. 

\------

Following ‘the incident’ Neville couldn’t even bring himself to speak to Blaise over floo or reply to his owls, let alone meet with him face to face, so he begged off the next few wedding meetings. Luckily Hermione kept him up to speed with all the important decisions, such as Draco’s demand for napkin rings decorated with precious stones that exactly matched the tone of the drapes and flowers— should they match the stones with the flowers, and drapes, or match the drapes with the flowers and stones, or… Well, Neville really could not care less so he excused himself from that particular discussion after saying he would find flowers to match whatever colour they wanted if they gave him enough time.

Then Hermione showed up to Hogwarts in person one weekend, without warning Neville so he’d been unable to pretend he was too busy to see her (coming up with convincing lies was not one of his strong points). She claimed she was concerned about him following his string of no-shows, and he actually felt a bit guilty, but there was no way he could tell her about drunkenly assaulting Blaise; she’d lose all respect for him.

“The engagement party is next week, in case you’d forgotten. You will be there, won’t you?” Hermione asked pointedly as they settled down for tea and biscuits in his office. 

Neville cursed under his breath. He hadn’t forgotten, how could he? But he’d put a great deal of effort into pretending that it wasn’t actually happening, and he had almost believed himself.

“Blaise said he tried to talk to you about what you need to bring, but you’ve not been responding to his owls. I assume that means you already know your responsibilities for the evening?” She eyed him over the top of her tea and Neville felt the colour rise in his cheeks. He had no bloody clue what his responsibilities were— every single one of Blaise’s letters ended up unopened in the bottom drawer of his desk. He quickly pretended to be interested in the sickly looking plant that was sat on the work table. Maybe if he was lucky Hermione wouldn’t notice his guilt-stricken face.

“Er, sure, yeah, I know.” He mumbled at the plant. Merlin, there was no way Hermione couldn’t see right through his crappy excuse for a lie. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and there was no missing her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, but thankfully she hastily schooled her expression into something less...knowing and changed the subject. Had Blaise told her anything? No, surely he hadn’t or she would be yelling at him right now rather than chatting amiably about how much the school had changed since they attended. But maybe this was all a ruse? Maybe she was lulling him into a false sense of security and would call him out in front of everyone at the party? Neville felt sick. He could barely hear her over the sounds of his churning stomach and racing thoughts. He hoped he didn’t look as pale and clammy as he felt.

“Well, anyway, I should be going. I promised Pansy I’d meet her for lunch.” She stood up, dusted a few stray biscuit crumbs off her top, and leaned in to hug Neville. “You should drop Blaise a note or something. He’s not said anything, but I can tell he’s worried about you.”

“Sure, I’ll, er, do that. Yeah.” He said, feeling the fresh guilt of that little lie settle down on top of the mountain of all his other guilt. 

“Oh, one more thing before I forget. Here.” Hermione held out an envelope and watched Neville expectantly. Well, here it was, the big ‘call out’. This was obviously a court summons or an arrest warrant or something. _Neville Longbottom, you are wanted for the crime of throwing yourself at Blaise Zabini and generally being a drunken sex pest_ it would say. They’d send him to Azkaban. He couldn’t go to Azkaban! They’d eat him alive there! He nervously reached out and clasped the envelope in a clammy hand.

“Honestly Neville, anyone would think I was handing you your death warrant,” she laughed, unaware of how close to his line of thought she’d come. “It’s the schedule for the party next week, annotated with everyone’s duties, just in case you misplaced Blaise’s letter.” 

“Oh! Oh, right. Thanks!” He sagged with relief and offered her a shaky smile. She might not know what happened between him and Blaise, but she definitely suspected something. The woman was too clever by far. 

After having said their goodbyes, again, Neville sat down and smacked his head against his desk; once, twice, and then a third time for good measure. With all the stress of worrying about Hermione finding out he was a sexual predator, he’d completely forgotten just who would be at the engagement party. There was no way he’d be able to avoid the man for the whole night, and Harry would kill him if he sacked off the party. There was no more putting off the apology— he’d just have to hope that Blaise wasn’t too mad at him and wouldn’t demand the Aurors take him away in chains. He smacked his head down for a fourth time. 

“Steady on dear, you’ll damage the table!” Professor Sprout’s cheerful voice carried in through the open door as she bustled past, chuckling to herself. Neville groaned and smacked his head down once more, just because. Life was so much more simple before this stupid wedding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long gap between posting 1&2\. Hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> As with everything I write, it's unbeta'd so every error is completely on me.

Neville felt sick. It was the day of the engagement party and he had hidden away in a back room with a mumbled excuse that he needed to tend to the flowers in the centrepieces before they were positioned. He’d so far avoided Blaise since the man was incapable of being on time for anything, but he could only hide away for so long before Pansy and Hermione would start to get suspicious. 

As if summoned, Pansy’s sharp voice rang out as the door to his temporary sanctuary was flung open.

“Neville, darling, when you’re quite done fiddling with the greenery, we need your help out here. Hermione’s hired paid help when we could just as easily call in some favours for our Groom Who Lived and use house-elves. You need to tell her she’s wrong and send the help home.” Neville may not have attended many of the wedding meetings, but he definitely remembered Hermione’s point-blank refusal to use house-elves unless they could find some that accepted paid work. Having said that, he really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Pansy. Hiding out in this back room all day was looking more and more appealing. Now, if he could just think up a way to make Pansy go away and leave him in peace...

“Um, I’m not...er...it’s just, there are a few more bits....um...you know...” Excellent lie, Neville. Absolutely fucking stellar. He mentally slapped himself a few times. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just get out here and stop hiding.” Pansy snapped, marching up to Neville and reaching out to grab his arm. He froze, too scared of the dangerous glint in her eyes to move out of her reach. For a petite woman, she was a pretty terrifying force when she needed to be, and even when she didn’t. Neville allowed himself to be manhandled out into the main hall, all the while Pansy muttered about idiot boys and oblivious Gryffindors. Her vice-like grip on his forearm didn’t exactly leave much room for disagreement. 

When the hall opened out before him, he had to stifle a gasp—how long had he been hiding? The formerly vast, empty space was filled with people bustling purposefully about between a sea of circular tables, placing cutlery and plates with military precision. Fairy lights and bunting and garlands adorned the walls, and a string quartet tuned their instruments on a small stage area. All that was missing, it seemed, were the centrepieces for the tables, which Neville had been holding hostage in a back room. 

“You there! Yes, you with the 80’s hair,” Pansy yelled at a young man who was unfortunate enough to pass through her line of sight. “Go round up some minions and fetch the centrepieces from the Holt Suite. Longbottom here assures me they’re as perfect as they’re going to get. Go on, chop chop!”

Neville smiled apologetically as the harried man rushed past him.

“And you, young man,” Pansy said, directing her deadly gaze in Neville’s direction once more, “are going to supervise the placement of the centrepieces, then join us at the bar for a pre-party drink. And don’t forget what I said about Hermione and her hired help.”

Neville mumbled in agreement and wandered off to ‘supervise’, or whatever the hell Pansy wanted. He kept his head down and focused on the tables, tweaking the floral displays here and there as needed. It didn’t require much thought but it was enough to keep his mind distracted from his Blaise problem. 

“If I were a betting man, I’d wager you were avoiding me, but that can’t be true, can it? I mean, look at me— who would want to avoid this!?” 

Neville spun around guiltily and came face to face with the man who’d occupied far too many of his thoughts of late and who he’d put so much effort into avoiding. In his surprise, Neville dropped the cake fork he’d been absently fiddling with, incurring himself an exasperated huff and a frown from the staff member who’d been hovering beside him and straightening out any of the table settings he knocked while adjusting the centrepieces.

“Blaise! I, um, I didn’t see you there!” Neville said, tripping over his words and backing up slightly. He smiled, or at least he tried to, but it must have come out as more of a grimace because Blaise’s expression fell. This is it, thought Neville. This is the beginning of the end. He’s going to yell at me, or punch me, or hex my ‘nads off, then Harry will get mad at me for ruining his engagement party, then everyone else will get mad at me for upsetting Harry, then they’ll run me out of the country and I’ll be forced to live a cave and survive by eating bugs…

“You really are avoiding me, aren’t you?” Blaise said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Shit.” He dragged a hand over his face and appeared to deflate even further when Neville flinched and pressed himself further back against the table. This was not at all how Neville had expected the confrontation to go; Blaise actually looked upset, and not in an ‘I’m about to rip you a new arsehole’ way, but rather in an ‘on the verge of tears’ way. It was most unsettling.

“Blaise? Are you…” Neville began, but thankfully Blaise cut him off because he wasn’t really sure what he was going to say.

“Can we talk? Somewhere private?” He asked quietly.

Maybe it was because Blaise was suddenly acting so un-Blaise-like, but Neville found himself nodding mutely. He swallowed down his fear that Blaise was just separating him from the herd to make it easier to finish him off, and trailed reluctantly behind as he led them towards an empty room a short distance from the main hall.

Neville glanced at his surroundings as Blaise clicked the door shut behind them. The room appeared to currently be being used for storage, although it was a fairly sizable space. There were chairs and tables stacked up around the edges, and several large free-standing display boards stood haphazardly in one corner. A lone table and a forlorn-looking group of damaged chairs were huddled together in the centre. Blaise strode past him and, after briefly testing the table’s sturdiness with a one-handed wobble, perched on the edge, arms folded across his chest. He silently regarded Neville for a few awkward moments before speaking.

“I want to apologise for what happened that night at the Banshee,” Blaise said, his gaze steady on Neville’s face.

Neville blinked in confusion. Why was Blaise apologising to him? This isn’t how it was supposed to go. “What do you mean?” He asked cautiously.

“I got you drunk and threw myself at you- surely you remember? That’s why you’ve been avoiding me ever since, right?”

“Um, sure, yeah.” 

“Okay, well, I’m really am sorry. I was out of line and overstepped a shitload of boundaries, so if it's okay with you, I'd like to just forget it ever happened. I know we’ve only really been friends a short while, but I’ve missed hanging out with you, and all this wedding stuff is dull without you. So…friends?” Blaise extended a hand hopefully. 

Neville stared at the proffered hand. This was too weird, Blaise really thought he was the one at fault? 

…and then another thought struck Neville. Hard. Blaise threw himself at him? Blaise wants, or at least wanted, him? He felt his face grow warm as he contemplated what that might mean.

“Fine, I get it. I acted despicably, and you have every right to not forgive me. I just hope we can at least be civil for Draco and Harry’s sakes.” Blaise said before hopping off the table and heading for the door.

“What? No! Wait!” Neville called after Blaise’s retreating back. He reached out and grabbed Blaise’s arm to stop him from leaving. Blaise slowly turned around and stared expectantly at him. “Um…It’s okay, I was just, ah, thrown. I mean, look at you! And well, I’m not, well, I’ve never, well. You know. And… fuck. Forgetting the whole night ever happened sounds great, so let's do that, yeah?” Neville’s tongue tripped over the words as they rushed to escape. He just wanted Blaise to be happy, and rid him of that frown, especially since it was him that had caused it.

Blaise smiled, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Neville thought he saw a flash of disappointment cross his face, but it was so brief he decided he must have imagined it. 

“Friends?” Neville asked, holding out a hand.

“Friends,” replied Blaise, ignoring the hand and going in for a hug instead.

Neville hugged him back, one hand resting on Blaise’s waist, the other across his shoulders. He didn’t press his nose into the soft warmth of Blaise’s neck. And he didn’t take a deep breath of the chocolatey-sweet aroma of Blaise’s moisturiser that lay beneath his delicately spiced cologne. And he didn’t enjoy the way Blaise’s close-cropped hair ticked the side of his face as he didn’t nuzzle at the soft spot where his jaw and ear meet. And he definitely didn’t squeeze a bit tighter so he could feel the hard planes of Blaise’s chest pressed tightly against his own. Not at all.

\---------—

Neville shuffled between the rows of wandering cabbages he and Pomona were preparing for a first-year herbology project, poking and prodding where necessary. It had been over two months since the engagement party and he still felt out of sorts. He just couldn’t seem to focus on anything without his thoughts wandering to soft dark skin and strong, well-muscled arms. After their agreement to forget the past, they had spent the rest of the night talking, dancing, and drinking with each other and with their friends, and Neville couldn’t remember a night where he’d had more fun. There was just one thing marring the evening for him, and that was, of course, Blaise sodding Zabini. Neville was fairly sure he was crushing hard on the man; he wasn’t afraid to admit that to himself now. But for all that he had been barely more than an arm's length away from Neville all night, he’d been distant. It was like he was holding himself back, trying to keep something hidden—the laugh was too bright, the friendly slaps on the shoulder a little too hard, and on more than one occasion, Neville had caught Blaise staring at him, a strange look haunting his otherwise perfect face. It was odd, and it made Neville’s insides do strange squirmy things that he wasn’t sure he liked. He wanted to take Blaise away somewhere quiet and smooth the worry from his face, but at the same time, the thought of being alone with Blaise terrified him.

The wedding planning meetings were kicking up a gear now. Harry had decided he wanted to have the ceremony at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall, so they had settled on an August wedding in order to get it done before the school term started. Neville had suggested they wait until next August since it was already May, but from the way Draco had launched at him one might have thought he’d suggested they move the ceremony to Voldemort’s boyhood home and get married wearing nothing but Death Eater masks. 

Despite only having a little over two months of intense planning to meet all of Draco’s ridiculous requirements—both for the stag party and the wedding itself—Neville had only seen Blaise a handful of times. Each of those times he’d been friendly and polite, and to anyone looking in from the outside, nothing would have looked amiss, but Neville knew something was wrong. Blaise’s hugs lacked the warmth they’d had before, his smiles didn’t reach his eyes, and that was when he actually bothered to show up for the meetings. It was driving Neville up the wall. He’d finally admitted to himself that yeah, maybe he did like Blaise, only for Blaise to start pulling away. He thought back to that night when he’d been so sure Blaise had admitted to fancying him, but now he rather thought he must have imagined the whole thing. Blaise had probably been trying to spare his feelings by taking responsibility for that cringe-worthy drunken kiss, and in reality saw Neville as some pathetic mess of a human to be pitied rather than desired.

“Come on dear, out with it. Your sour mood is upsetting the mandrakes.” 

Neville looked up in surprise. He hadn’t heard Pomona bustle into the greenhouse, which was unusual because she wasn’t particularly light on her feet and normally he’d have heard her coming from several greenhouses over as she nattered to herself and the plants. Merlin, but he must have his head in the clouds today. Blaise had turned up late for yesterday’s wedding planning meeting, which was not unusual in itself, but he had then barely glanced at Neville for the whole half an hour he sat with them, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. Neville frowned as the memory resurfaced of Blaise excusing himself from the meeting by saying he had a hot date to get to before dashing out of the coffee shop without even a backward glance. Oh, but it hurt. Of all the witches and wizards out there, why did he have to have it bad for Blaise fucking Zabini?

“My mood’s not sour,” he groused, turning his attention to a pot of soil that had been left on the side by a previous class. He was a bit hesitant to touch it—Martin Corne had been in that class, and he had a habit of leaving horrible surprises behind for unsuspecting apprentice teachers. Neville shuddered as he remembered picking up what had appeared to be an abandoned flowerpot in the middle of the floor after a class last month, only to find several large, pissed off, spiders beneath it. Martin and his little gang of hellions had run off squawking with delight when he’d screamed and jumped onto a nearby table, nearly toppling it in the process. To be fair, he hadn’t actually seen Martin, but he’d recognise that laugh anywhere; it haunted his dreams.

“Come now, you can’t fob me off like that. I’m not your Gran. A problem shared is a problem halved, and all that tosh.” She stepped past him, deftly banishing the pot of soil, before herding him towards her small office in the adjacent greenhouse. As with so many things in his life, Neville just allowed himself to be swept along. He’d long ago learned to pick his battles, and denying Pomona Sprout the opportunity to mother him was not worth the effort. And if he was being completely honest, he could actually do with talking to someone before his problems festered further.

He perched on a worn, old armchair in the corner of Pomona’s office. It looked more like an eccentric, old, aunt’s living room than an office, but he loved coming in here. Everything was mismatched, and there was surely nothing under fifty years old (aside from himself, and the biscuits he hoped), but it was so homey. It was like stepping into a warm hug, or wearing your comfiest, slouchiest clothes, and he could already feel some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

“Now, please don’t tell me it’s young Corne and his ragtag band of miscreants that has you all tied up in knots,” she said, passing him a large, steaming mug of tea. “He really is a sweet boy when he’s not marked you for torture, and he doesn’t mean anything maliciously, but I will have words with McGonagall if you need me to.”

Neville smiled. He appreciated her concern, and it was nice to have someone looking out for him. He briefly considered going with her assumption, but that wouldn’t be fair on Martin, and it wouldn’t actually help him. Not that he was actually keen on discussing his non-existent love life with his mentor. “No, it’s fine. I faced down a dark lord, I can handle a few rowdy fifth years.”

Pomona eyed him hawkishly over her tea, her keen gaze boring into him. Neville shifted awkwardly in his seat, feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny. His eyes flitted about the room, and he tried to relax back into the chair in a vain attempt to look at ease.

“If it’s not the kids, then it must be girl trouble. Am I right?”

Neville froze. Pomona had given him the perfect opening to unburden himself, and now he wanted nothing more than to run and hide and go back to pretending nothing was wrong. Why did he agree to come here? He knew Pomona could read him like a book, and now he was going to have to spill all the details about his horrible one-sided crush on Blaise because he was far too flustered to come up with a lie. It wasn’t that he worried what she would think about him liking another man, in fact he was fairly certain she had a wife at home, but he didn’t really want her thinking about him having a sex life. She should view him in the same way that he viewed all older, parental figures: as sexless beings with no carnal desires.

“Kind of. I suppose.” Neville sighed and hunched over, gaze fixed on the mug milky tea grasped between his hands. His cheeks burned.

“Hmmm, boy trouble then?”

Neville glanced up at her, but quickly looked away at her knowing smirk. He huffed. There was no fobbing her off. Merlin, but this was embarrassing. “There’s this guy I like. I thought he might like me back, but I think I was wrong. Only now I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Is he a friend of yours? Have you tried speaking to him?”

“And say what? Blaise, I really like you, but more than as a mate? Merlin, I don’t even think he wants to be my friend anymore the way he’s acting right now, let alone anything more.” He sighed sadly. It sounded ridiculous, hearing himself say that out loud. There was no way he would ever be able to say something like that to Blaise. He looked up from his tea to find Pomona grinning wildly at him

“Blaise? That Zabini boy? Oh well done, Neville. Talk about aiming high. He’s ever so handsome!” 

Neville flushed. He hadn’t meant to let slip who it was he was having ‘boy trouble’ with! “Oh for…. Please don’t say anything to anyone!”

“Oh Neville, who am I going to tell?” She leant forward and patted his knee consolingly. “So, what do we do about young Zabini? Have you tried asking him out?”

“Of course not! I…look, it doesn’t matter. He’s so out of my league, and it’s just a stupid crush. Once Harry and Draco’s wedding is over, I won’t have to see him again.”

“And is that what you want? Neville. I may just be a batty old woman, but I do vaguely remember what it’s like to be young. I also know what it’s like to be old and have to live with regrets. If you like this Zabini fellow, talk to him. Tell him how you feel. What have you got to lose? You said yourself you won’t be seeing him after the wedding, so if it doesn’t work out the way you hoped, just lick your wounds and move on.”

Neville scrubbed a hand over his face and dragged his fingers back through his hair. She made it sound so simple, but it wasn’t, was it? How could he confess his feelings for Blaise when he wasn’t entirely sure of them himself? 

“Blaise could have anyone he wanted. He’s not going to be interested in me,” he said quietly.

“Oh tosh, you silly boy. Have you tried looking in a mirror lately? Or read one of those many, many articles about how you’re wizarding Britain’s most eligible bachelor? Don’t put yourself down. And certainly don’t go thinking you’re not worthy of Blaise Zabini. He would be lucky to have someone as wonderful as you. Now, get on with you. Those third years will be tearing the greenhouse apart if we don’t get out there soon.

Neville mumbled his thanks and trotted off to greet his afternoon class. At least it was Slytherin and Hufflepuff third years this session—they were usually a fairly problem-free bunch, although he had his suspicions about Katy McCorrie. For a Hufflepuff, she was quite a devious little thing, and on the rare occasion that something went wrong in that class, she could usually be found nearby.

———

The day of the stag party finally arrived and Neville wasn’t any closer to figuring out what to do about Blaise. He’d sort of hoped his feelings would have sorted themselves out and buggered off by now, but if anything, things had gotten worse. Now, every time he saw Blaise, he could hear Pomona in his head yelling at him to talk about his feelings, whilst the rest of him was shouting to keep everything locked down. Blaise was in his head constantly and Neville didn’t know what to do. Tonight was going to kill him, he knew it. 

Harry and Draco had eventually decided to have one party between them, which simplified matters, but beyond agreeing that Blaise would have complete creative control, Neville had had very little to do with the organisation or planning. However, even knowing what Blaise was like, and knowing what some stag parties were like, Neville was in no way prepared for what greeted him when he pushed open the door to the bar area of the Moody Mare on that unseasonably chilly July evening.

Blaise had hired a whole pub for the night, and it was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere as far as Neville could tell. The invitation had arrived with a floo address and a time, and very little else so they could be in France for all he knew. Thankfully, the floo was in a small backroom, which meant Neville had a few moments to gather himself before entering the party, but he could hear the music already as the bass thumped through the very structure of the building. He was tempted to turn around and go home. No one had seen him yet, and judging from the noise through the door, no one would miss him if he did…but he had promised Harry he’d be there, and what sort of shitty best man would he be if he ditched the groom on his last big blowout before settling down to married life? Besides, someone needed to be responsible and make sure no one drank enough to end up in St Mungo’s and it might as well be him—there was no way he was letting himself get drunk around Blaise again.

He hesitantly pushed the door open and was instantly assaulted by a wall of heat and sound. The place was packed. Neville scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but his attention was quickly distracted by a waiter weaving through the tables carrying a tray laden with red and green cocktails and wearing nothing but a red and gold thong. His face heated and he averted his gaze, only to have his eyes immediately caught by another similarly attired waiter, only this one was wearing a green and silver thong. He frowned. Was that a…yes. He was wearing a green and silver thong with a little snake just over his own…snake… And the other waiter had a lion. The penny dropped as Neville finally took in the rest of the decorations; Slytherin and Gryffindor banners and pennants hung on the walls, surrounded by red, green, gold, and silver fairy lights. All the drinks being passed around by the scantily clad waiters (all of whom were male and very fit) were red or green, and miniature Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch players zoomed around just below the ceiling, occasionally dipping down to drift over someone’s head or slalom between dancers. Neville grinned—it looked amazing; Blaise really had outdone himself.

As he squeezed his way through the throngs, he saw so many faces he recognised from school, it felt like a Hogwarts reunion, minus the girls of course. All the lads from their year were here, even Ron, surprisingly enough. Neville hoped there wouldn’t be any weirdness about him taking the best man job; he’d not spoken to, or even seen, Ron in a long time so he wasn’t sure where things stood between the pair of them. Neville exchanged a fair few nods and ‘hellos’ with various people as he continued his search for at least one of the grooms, and was about to give up and flag down a waiter when eventually he spotted Harry in the far corner. 

——

A couple of hours later and Neville was feeling pleasantly buzzed. He settled back into his seat and watched with some amusement as Seamus tried to challenge the table to another drinking contest. He’d been at the same table for most of the night, only leaving his spot to use the toilet. Other people had come and gone, but the core of he, Dean, Seamus, Ron, and Harry had remained the same. It was good, really good, being here, drinking and laughing and chatting with his old dorm mates, and his face was starting to ache from grinning so much. He’d missed nights like these, what with his self-imposed isolation up at Hogwarts recently, and he vowed to stop ignoring Seamus’s invites to the monthly piss-up from now on. Blaise had flitted in and out of Neville’s line of sight on several occasions as he worked the room, but the conversation around the table was enough to keep Neville from getting too distracted by him. He didn’t even dwell on the fact that Blaise had not appeared to notice Neville at all ( although he’d probably unpack that bag of hurt once he was back home and by himself). Perhaps this was what he had needed all along to move on from his crush. 

Neville was dragged from his warm, fuzzy thoughts by the sudden arrival of Pansy as she elbowed her way through the crowd and made a space for herself at their table.

“Hey, watch it, Parkinson!” Seamus yelled, managing to steady his cocktail before it toppled.

“Nothing to do with me. You knocked it with your own hand.” She snapped, barely sparing him a glance.

“Yeah, because your fat arse nearly knocked me off my chair,” he replied angrily. Pansy stilled and everyone at the table immediately paused their conversations. Seamus must have been more pissed than Neville had realised if he thought facing off against Pansy Parkinson was a good move. Seamus clearly hadn’t noticed Pansy’s icy glare though as he blundered on. “And what the fuck are you doing here anyway? It’s a stag party. You know, guys only. Gotta have a cock and balls.”

“In that case, what are you doing here?” Pansy said with a smile.

“Hey! I’ve got a dick!” Seamus yelled, while the rest of the table fell about laughing.

“Of course you have. Now fuck off. I’m here to talk to Longbottom.” She turned her back to Seamus and Neville tried very hard not to flinch from her glare. 

“Neville, darling, I hate to interrupt your Gryffin-bore bromance but someone needs to control Blaise, and I think you’re just the man for the job.” 

“What’s he doing? I really don’t think Blaise is going to want to see me. He’s not even said hi tonight,” he said, with no small amount of bitterness colouring his curiosity.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Longbottom, and I honestly don’t get the attraction.”

He frowned, not that it wasn’t unusual for him to only understand a fraction of what Pansy was on about. “Um, okay?” 

“Just go find Blaise and stop him making a tit of himself. Fruity cocktails always send him a bit wild.”

Pansy disappeared through the crowd without further explanation or even a ‘goodbye’ and all Neville could do was stare in confusion at her retreating back. As much as he wanted to seek out Blaise, he didn’t think it would be a good idea. Blaise wouldn’t want him hanging around if he was trying to have fun, especially if it was the sort of ‘fun’ Neville suspected he was having. What exactly did Pansy expect him to do? 

After a few moments though, curiosity got the better of him, and he excused himself from the table saying he needed a piss. He’d just have a quick look for Blaise, just to see what he was up to, then he’d go back to his friends.

Blaise wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the bar area, or by the floo, or in the toilets. Neville was about to give up and return to his comfortable seat in the corner, when he noticed a door on the other side of the bar that people kept disappearing through. He followed behind a guy he recognised from Hogwarts, expecting to walk into another bar room, or perhaps a dining area.

The room was dark, lit only by the lights on a small stage at one end, and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they did, Neville stopped mid-step, the door clicking shut behind him and cutting off the raucous sounds and booming music of the bar he’d left behind. He stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he took in the sights before him. 

There were several small tables in the room, with chairs positioned to face stage area, and booths lined the walls. The people Neville had assumed were just waiters apparently provided a few more services in this room, as he saw more than one of them drag a patron into the shadows of a booth to do Merlin only knew what. A couple of people were on the stage, putting on a show of some description; one man sat in a chair, while another moved seductively around him, and Neville’s eyes almost passed right over them. He wasn’t a prude, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he found this level of public display slightly uncomfortable, like he was intruding on something private even though it was on stage and therefore meant to be watched. There was something about the couple on stage that caught his eye though. Maybe it was the way the smooth, dark skin of the man in the chair glowed warmly under the low stage lights, shadows adding extra definition to the well-toned muscles. Maybe it was the close-cropped black hair, groomed to perfection that he glimpsed every time the pale man swayed to one side. Maybe it was the way the dark-skinned man tenderly ran strong hands up the fair-skinned man’s back, delicately tracing the lines and ridges of muscle with his fingers. Maybe, his brain supplied helpfully, it was because this could almost be him and Blaise. A shiver ran down Neville’s back; it was like watching one of his Blaise-centric fantasies play out in front of his eyes, although in his head it was usually Blaise doing those things to him as he was sat, powerless to resist. Neville edged further into the room and sat at a free table near the front, never once taking his eyes off the display in front of him. He was mesmerized. The pale man eventually rose from the other man’s lap and moved behind the chair, pale hands caressing a dark chest, and Neville tore his eyes away from the most beautiful nipples he’s ever seen to get a glimpse of the face of the man they belonged to... 

Blaise fucking Zabini. 

Neville’s drink slipped from his grasp and clattered noisily to the table, causing both the men on stage to look in his direction. Blaise’s eyes locked onto Neville’s and the aroused smirk instantly dropped from his face. Neville pushed himself up and stumbled back away from the stage. It felt like all the air had left his lungs and he had to get away from the room, away from Blaise, away from the party. He was horrified by his reaction to seeing Blaise act so intimately with that other man, but it had hurt so much, seeing him act that way with another man when he couldn’t even take the time to say hello to Neville. Rationally, he knew it was stupid to get so upset; it was a public show, for fuck’s sake, not a blowjob in a bathroom stall! And it wasn’t like he and Blaise were anything to each other—he could do what he liked with who he liked, whenever the fuck he liked. Oh, but it had looked so very intimate, and the desire and arousal in Blaise’s face was obvious. He thought he heard Blaise calling his name, but he refused to look back. He didn’t want Blaise to see how upset he was. So he pushed through the door into the bar room and headed straight to the floo. He couldn’t stay here any longer. It had been fun for a while, but now he needed to get back. He missed his quiet Hogsmeade flat. He missed his tiny office in greenhouse seven. He missed his plants. He missed his life before this stupid bloody wedding and before stupid bloody Blaise _fuck-anything-that-moves-except-Neville_ Zabini messed everything up.

A few short weeks. That’s all he had left to endure before his peace and quiet returned.

\------—

Neville was feeling quite pleased with himself for managing to last the whole ceremony and wedding breakfast without saying more than a couple of words to Blaise. His crush raged just as strongly as it always had, maybe even more so now that he had those images of a shirtless Blaise being ground upon by an almost naked, oiled up stripper permanently etched into his brain, but he was still horrifically embarrassed by the way he had run off from the stag party. There was no way he could even look Blaise in the eye, let alone hold a conversation with him. When Pansy had inquired about his sudden disappearance from the stag party at their final wedding planning meeting, he’d lied and told them he left because he felt unwell, but he didn’t think any of them actually bought it judging by the way they’d all eyed him speculatively. Blaise had tried to speak to him afterwards, but Neville pretended not to hear him calling his name and apparated away. It probably wasn’t the healthiest reaction to an embarrassing situation, and there was no way he’d admit to being such a coward to anyone, but it avoided a potentially awkward confrontation, and that’s all that mattered

Now all he had to do was put in a couple of hours at this wedding reception, then he could feign tiredness and escape back to his flat. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard to hide from Blaise for a couple of hours, especially with his finely honed avoidance skills.

The wedding itself had been beautiful. Molly Weasley cried the whole way through, and Neville was 90% certain they were tears of happiness—there were more than a few people who still expected Harry to abandon his ‘gay experiment’ and settle down with his childhood sweetheart, but he was fairly sure Molly had finally accepted that Harry would never be giving her grandchildren. Neville was immensely happy to have been a part of the wedding, even though it had caused significant disruption to his life, but he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy every time he caught the way Harry and Draco looked at each other. They were so sickeningly happy, and he wondered if he would ever have someone with whom to inspire such a reaction in others. It was a good thing nothing ever happened between him and Blaise in the end. He would likely have fallen too hard, and ended up with a broken heart when Blaise got bored and moved onto the next target. He sighed and took another sip of his drink. No matter how many times he told himself that, it never made him feel any better.

“How come I always seem to find you propping up the bar and looking like a mopey old sad sack?”

“Hi Pansy,” Neville said, giving her a small fond smile. A year ago, the thought of spending any time with Pansy Parkinson would have terrified him. Now, he actually considered her a friend. He hoped she would still consider him one even after the wedding when he holed himself away at Hogwarts and never left the greenhouses again. They stood in companionable silence for a couple of minutes watching Draco and Harry glide gracefully around the dance floor. Merlin, but he could vomit. “Do you ever wonder if you’ll find the Harry to your Draco?” He asked eventually, turning slightly to face Pansy.

“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going to whine about how desperately lonely and unlovable you are. I’m not drunk enough for this shit. Not from you as well. Idiot boys, the pair of you,” she said with an exasperated huff.

Neville frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me.” She downed her drink and placed the glass on the bar behind her, then wrapped a deceptively strong hand around Neville’s and dragged him straight across the dance floor, paying absolutely no heed to all the couples she ploughed through. Neville stumbled along behind her, mumbling apologetically at all the people left in her wake. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but as always, it was better not to argue with Pansy and just go with it. At least that’s what he thought until he saw who was sat at the table she was dragging him towards.

“No. No way. Pans, what are you…” he tried to yank his hand from her vice-like grip, it was too late. 

Blaise had been slumped in his chair, staring morosely at his drink, but upon noticing Pansy marching straight towards him with Neville in tow, he straightened his posture and glanced confusedly between the two of them. “Pans?” 

Pansy pushed Neville at Blaise. “Here you go, you big dumb ox, the ‘Draco’ to your ‘Harry’. Blaise, don’t you dare say I never do anything for you. If the pair of you aren’t looking completed shagged out when I see you tomorrow, then I officially wash my hands of your whole disaster of a relationship.” She marched off without another word.

“What was that about?” Blaise asked as they watched Pansy disappear through the throngs of people on the dance floor.

“Um, I’m not sure.” Neville suspected, based on Pansy’s comment, that this might be her idea of match-making, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Blaise. Better to claim ignorance rather than make the situation even more awkward. He watched Blaise watching him for a few moments, feeling increasingly uneasy as the silence between them stretched on. He wondered what had happened to the brash, confident Blaise he’d known only a few months ago.

“Sit, please,” Blaise said eventually, and Neville gladly flopped into the chair beside him. Now that they were eye to eye, and he could hide his nervous fidgety hands beneath the tablecloth, he felt slightly calmer.

“Look, about…” Neville said at the same time as Blaise said: “I’m sorry for…”

They chuckled stiffly. Merlin, but this was uncomfortable. Neville ran a sweaty hand through his hair as he tried to think of something, anything, that would make this situation less toe-curlingly embarrassing.

“You go first,” Blaise said, reaching forward to take a sip of his drink. Neville followed the movement with his eyes and thought he detected a slight tremor in Blaise’s hand. Was he nervous too?

“Ah, well, I was just going to apologise for Pansy dragging me over here,” he said sheepishly, aware that Blaise was probably expecting something a bit more profound.

“Oh.” There was a brief flicker of an emotion on Blaise’s face that Neville couldn’t place; he almost looked…disappointed? Upset? Whatever it was, it made Neville’s stomach clench and he had a sudden urge to try and ease the tension between them.

“Um, yeah, well…” Neville took a breath and slowly exhaled as he considered how honest he wanted to be with Blaise. “I, ah, I also wanted to say sorry for running out on you at the stag party. I don’t know what came over me, I just… I really didn’t like seeing you up there, you know? With your hands all over that guy.” He stared at a small stain on the tablecloth in front of him and tried to ignore the heat flooding to his face. Any second now, Blaise would laugh or yell or throw his drink. Any…second…

Blaise leant forward, his elbows on the table, and ran his hands over his face. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I was so fucking wasted and that guy, well, he kind of reminded me of you…And, fuck, I just really wanted him to be you.”

Neville looked up at Blaise, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Had he heard right? The music was quite loud, he must have misheard. “What do you mean? You’ve been avoiding me since the engagement party—I thought I’d pissed you off or something.”

“Are you for real? I thought I’d disgusted you by getting you drunk and throwing myself at you in that club. I just wanted to give you some space since you seemed to be so freaked out. And, to be honest, I needed space too. I was worried I’d lose control around you and do something stupid again.”

“Why would you worry about losing control around me? Lose control of what?” Neville was fairly sure he understood what Blaise was talking about, but he wasn’t taking any chances. 

Blaise shook his head, grinning to himself. “Fuck. Pansy was right. You’re completely oblivious.” He turned bodily to face Neville and hooked a hand around the back of his neck, pulling their faces close. “I like you Neville, a whole fucking lot,” he huffed. His voice, low and rumbling, went straight to Neville's groin.

Neville tensed. This was really happening. “I like you too, Blaise,” he said softly, barely able to vocalise the words. 

Blaise grinned. “Thank fuck for that.” He surged forward and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against Neville’s. 

Neville wrapped trembling hands around the lapels of Blaise’s jacket, pulling him in closer, and barely stifled a groan as Blaise's knee nudged the inside of his thigh. Neville pushed back against Blaise, opening his mouth and succumbing to Blaise’s tongue. He tasted like firewhiskey and chocolate and Neville couldn't get enough; he felt he could almost come from this alone. Blaise’s lips, his tongue, the strong fingers playing through his hair, the hand scratching down his back. Neville could already feel the arousal coiling in his gut. Merlin, what was he, fifteen again?

Blaise broke the kiss suddenly and Neville was left panting, desperate. He kept his forehead resting on Neville’s, and Neville quickly found himself getting lost in deep brown eyes. “Fuck. You really have no idea what you do to me, do you, Longbottom.”

“I’d say the feeling is mutual,” he smirked, leaning in for another taste of Blaise’s perfect mouth. Neville could quite happily have kissed Blaise all night, but this time he was the one the break the kiss. 

“Dance with me.” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” Blaise replied, smiling softly. He stood up and held his hand out toward Neville. Neville entwined his fingers with Blaise’s and let himself be tugged out of his seat, then together they stepped onto the dance floor. Neville couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

——

Neville glanced over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes, for the hundredth time.” Blaise huffed. “Now get that bloody door open or I’m taking you on the doorstep.”

A shiver ran down Neville’s spine. He’d never particularly considered himself an exhibitionist, but the way Blaise’s voice sounded curled around those words made his nerve endings spark with want.

—--

Neville gazed up at the beautiful man above him and smoothed his hands over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the sweat as it beaded across his delicious skin. He still couldn’t quite believe Blaise was in his bed, riding his cock, so he had to keep running his hands over as much dark skin as he could reach to reassure himself it was real; the whole night, or at least the part since Pansy’s intervention, had been like a dream, and he wasn’t entirely sure it actually happened. How could it be that the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, a man who could have any witch of wizard he desired, had chosen him?

“Stop thinking and fuck me,” Blaise grunted, grinding his hips down.

Neville groaned. He wrapped his hands around Blaise’s waist and thrust upwards. “Like this you mean?”

“Yes! Fuck. Neville. Harder.” 

Blaise’s gripped the bed sheet either side of Neville’s head, his back arched and his head thrown back. Neville pounded up, one punishing thrust after another, with as much force as he was able, his heels seeking purchase on the bed to get more power behind his movements. This was nothing like any sex he’d had before. His whole body was taut with pleasure and arousal. Surely he’d never been this hard before. None of his previous partners even came close to matching this. It was hard and rough and yet soft and intimate. He could feel Blaise’s erection, dripping with precome, pressed between them. He reached between them and wrapped a hand around Blaise, letting the other man fuck into his fist as they both chased their end. Neville was close. He was amazed he’d even lasted this long; Blaise was so hot and tight.  
All of a sudden, Blaise shuddered and tensed above him, his movements becoming erratic, and Neville felt the warmth of his release as it coated his abdomen. He continued thrusting up into Blaise, losing his mind to the way Blaise clenched around him and it wasn’t long before he was following Blaise over the edge. 

Blaise collapsed down onto his chest, then flopped to one side, keeping an arm slung over Neville’s chest. Neville’s skin felt sticky with sweat and come, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, not just yet. He breathed heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, but his eyes felt heavy and his limbs were loose. He could feel sleep trying to claim him, but he couldn’t let it win, not right now, not when he still had something important to ask.

“Blaise?”

“Hmm?”

“What is this?”

“Huh?”

“This. Is this just a one time thing or are we, you know…going to do this again, and maybe go for dinner and such.”

Blaise raised himself up on an elbow and peered down at him. “Neville Longbottom, are you seriously asking me out as I lay here covered in my own spunk and leaking your come from my arse?”

“Um, maybe?”

“Ha! Ask me again over breakfast. Right now, we need to shower, then sleep.” He ducked down and gave Neville a quick peck on the lips, before getting up and heading to the bathroom.

Neville chuckled and reluctantly peeled himself off the sweaty sheets. He didn’t know where this thing with Blaise was going, or even what exactly it was, but he was excited to find out.


End file.
